Ralph the Wonder Llama

Last Saturday I went walking with a group of total strangers. It was ok – a good route and a fairly challenging hike – but ultimately felt very forced which, of course, it was. I had no real desire to be there with these people (nothing against them, they were fine) and was hyper-aware of the absence of one person in particular. This, especially so when walking up some of the very same tracks we’d walked down just a few months before. It’s like being haunted – or possibly the reverse of that – disturbed by the absence of someone rather than their presence. For we were on the Ben Lui hills, behind Tyndrum, though they were somewhat greener and greyer than was the case in November:

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Hi. So today I went to work having initially woken up deluding myself that it was already Saturday, when it was of course Friday. This may have had something to do with addlement caused by yesterday’s visit to the Scottish Beer Festival at the Assembly Rooms on George Street, for what must have been the fifth or sixth year running. Slightly more tasteful glasses this year, too. Which is nice. Anyway, it was a good thing it wasn’t Saturday as I’d have been in no fit state to go walking. As it was, I got on the train only to realise I’d lost my bracelet (you know, the one that looks like skulls made from teeth) and try as I might, I couldn’t find it anywhere. Which was annoying.

Then at lunchtime I went to Tiso to buy a map case for tomorrow, since I didn’t have one and it’s forecast to be showery. On the train on the way home I put said item next to my bag while I had a nap, being a bit tired as I was, just for a change (no, don’t say a word…). Just now I was making a list of stuff to take tomorrow, when I realised that I’d completely left said new purchase, unsullied by use, on the train two hours earlier. Pillock. Not normally the sort of thing I’d do. I rang First Trains lost property (who were closed) and left a message, in the very vain hope that it’ll turn up. It’ll probably just get binned. What a waste. And now I’ll have a soggy map, too.

Then I got a message on my phone to say it was all on for tomorrow morning, which is good. And next to my phone, on the shelf beside my bed, was my bracelet. You know, the one that looks like skulls made from teeth.

My head’s in bits, and life’s in pieces. What a shambles.

Remember these? Back in the day when the only thing that mattered was The Plan™ I used to allow myself a small pressie every month to keep myself motivated. Now, of course, it all feels rather hollow and pointless. Nonetheless, I am at my utmost need of motivation right now, and so, despite the fact that I could probably have lived without it, I’ve been shopping in an attempt to make myself feel better. This is what I bought:

It’s essentially for hillwalking, though a little larger than strictly necessary since I also want it to double as a short/hot trip pack where I need less stuff. That and the fact that this group of people I’m going walking with tomorrow week have a series of Munro-bashing efforts lined up through the summer, and lord knows I’m in need of (a) things to look forward to and (b) things to fill up weekends with, and so I can justify a new hill walking pack. Sort of. Anyway, it’s pretty good I think, though the mesh side pockets are, unfortunately, at the reverse angle of what would be ideal for use on the move without taking it off. However after experimentation I can retrieve and stow a half-litre Nalgene, so can take 1.5 and distribute as required. I don’t much like hydration systems, mostly on the grounds of mould/arsedness.

So has it helped? Do I feel better? Not really, but it hasn’t made me feel any worse. And that’s got to count for something. I’ll let you know how it fares next weekend.

Hi. I know I’ve been quiet lately. With good reason. I shan’t bore you, but suffice to say that since I got back from Denmark, life has been, well, pretty difficult I’m afraid. And a deal less good than it was before. I should like to say thank you in public to my good friends for all their support, without whom I don’t know what I’d have done. So thanks folks – you know who you are.

So anyway, one of the many consequences of recent events is that I now no longer have a regular hillwalking companion. Given that it’s something I love, part of what defines my sense of self as well as well as something I used to enjoy with a certain someone, and given also that as yet my navigational skills aren’t adequate to allow me safely to go out alone, I had to try to find some company in which to continue, hard as it is to swallow. To this end, I have just been speaking to a man, who may well have a beard, who knows, about joining a group of people on a walk on Sat 27th of this month. It’ll be a long day, given that it will, weather permitting, take in the four Munros of Beinn Dubhchraig (976m), Ben Oss (1029m), Ben Lui (1130m) and Beinn a’ Chleibh (916m) which are near where we were in Tyndrum earlier in the year. If the weather’s pants it’ll just be the first two. But the four is a 19km, nine-hour walk, and if that doesn’t shift some fucking cobwebs, then I don’t know what will. I’ve no idea what these people are like – it’s obviously not going to be the same – but I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Recently I went to Denmark for my God-daughter Sunday’s Confirmation. I travelled the day before the event itself, which was Thursday 21st May. I’d never been to a Confirmation before, and at this one there were 24 of them being confirmed at a Lutheran service. The priest looked like a cross between a chess piece and a Time Lord: very tall, wearing a black cassock, with a very stiff, thin, horizontal ruff. Tragically I have no picture. He was quite amusing too, at least I assume so by the congregation’s reactions. My Danish isn’t really up to following these things in detail. Or at all in fact.

Anyway, Sunday looked fabulous in her Confirmation dress, and luckily the weather was glorious, at least during the day. This is probably the best pic I currently have of the two of use together on the day. It was taken by Henning, Sunday’s grandfather, whose actual skill as a photographer, unfortunately, is inversely proportional to his own perception of that skill. In short, he’s as bad as he thinks he is good:

Can we have our heads back now, please Morfar?
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…and the storm will end. Maybe. Just make sure, when it does, to untie yourself. Otherwise you may have survived but you’re going to be well and truly stuck. And when a better, maybe even once-in-a-lifetime course appears you’ll have rope over your eyes and be unable to move. In the end the mast you’re tied to will rot and crumble, and you’ll be left ankle deep in sodden shards of regret.

See this?

Once it would have been an image of completion, success and fulfilment. Actually it contains nothing but six months’ hard work to no worthwhile end. Dust and stubborn, selfish vanity and blindness. And a bitter, if beneficial, pill.

Most of you will have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. I’m not going to explain. It’s enough that I understand. Sorry: annoyed. Careful what you wish for.

OK so I didn’t get the time to catch up over last weekend then I was going to post this before heading off to Copenhagen for Sunday’s Confirmation, but then something bad happened to the site and I’ve only just sorted it enough to write anything. It’s now late and I’ve had a tiring couple of days, so I’ll be brief. Welcome to the highlights reel.

The other weekend I was down visiting my folks and while I’ve told you about the, to me, remarkable visit of Fairport to my old home town, I haven’t told you anything else about the visit. Well, it had been last summer when my folks visited Edinburgh since I’d seen them, and it was certainly good to be back ’round the familial dinner table. Certainly it tends to be the time when I eat best, and this was no exception. I had been looking forward to seeing my Dad and Jean – it had been too long really – and I must say I had a great weekend. It’s not all about the cooking you know

Anyway, on the Saturday we took a trip out to Bexhill-upon-Sea which, you’ll be amazed to learn, is by the sea:

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Hello. Remember me? There is much catching up to do, and I’ve been meaning to do it this week. However, I also thought I’d have some spare time to myself this week in which to do said catching up. Ho ho. How silly of me. For work has been a complete nightmare for the last week or three, and I have no brain left, let alone energy. I shall try to make amends this weekend sometime, fair wind and good fortune allowing. Or more likely foul weather allowing, because otherwise I’m likely to spend at least some of it watching the cricket. And packing for next week’s trip. And shopping in preparation for next week’s trip. And…you get the idea. I’ve got to hunt haggis. ‘Nuff said.

In the meantime, I leave you with the best subject line from my spam mailbox for some considerable time. Very good. Most inventive.

FCs acoustic tour begins with a huge crackle from Ric’s violin as he plugs in an evidently very dodgy – and very electric – cable. He shrugs. “Not me”, he protests in mock outraged innocence, “it’s your gear”, he winks to the house tech. “Welcome to Fairport’s acoustic evening”, drolls Simon, “so much more complicated than the regular tour.”

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I know this says 1 May, but I am of course cheating. As I write. I’m “plugged” into the wireless network afforded by the radisson glasgow argyle st hotel, preparing for a 6am start tomorrow. How does one prepare for such a day’s arduous labour? Well, today it involved a day of working with the usual mixture of humans and fucktards (hello John), being taken out on the firm for a steak dinner, a couple of beers with the boss, and then being put up in what, to me at least, is a reasonably swanky hotel just round the corner from work. I’ve been out to sainsbury’s for a cheap four pack of peroni (have you seen the price of a minibar beer lately?), changed into a comfortable robe and sat at a desk for a chance to catch up with my email, for once this week. At least I could grab a free bucket of ice for my beer from the machine down the hall.
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